A Lady's Dream Come True - Grace Burrowes Page 0,84

heart is a citadel,” Ash said, “and Mrs. Channing has captured yours.”

Oak stared at his drink, idly noting the garnet, amber, and gold highlights created by the candlelight.

“Why did I ever think I missed my siblings?” he mused. “For weeks, nobody has presumed to announce my inmost thoughts to the world, nobody has insulted my attire, nobody has joked about my calling. You are under this roof a mere six hours, and already you declare me lovesick.”

“Five hours,” Cam said, glancing at the clock on the dining room mantel, “and you don’t deny the accusation. The widow is damned pretty, but you’ve been sketching the damned pretty ones since you went up to university. I like her.”

Ash sat back, crossing an ankle over one knee. “Oak likes Mrs. Channing, too, and she likes Oak. She doesn’t want him to hare off to the big city. Why isn’t marriage under discussion?”

That Cam let the question hang in the air, rather than heaping his unhelpful observations on top of Ash’s query, meant Oak would have to answer.

“I am an artist,” he said. “I’ve bent my entire being, from boyhood on, to achieving artistic success. Am I to throw it all away now, without testing my mettle in the only arena that matters?”

“A paintbrush-wielding gladiator,” Cam murmured. “I’m having trouble picturing it.”

So was Oak, truth be told. “If I take your club away from you, Cam, what’s left? Who are you?”

Cam sent Ash a look. “I am your tired brother, that’s who I am, and I’m a damned fine-looking fellow with pots of money and all the best connections. You should invite Mrs. Channing to Town. She’s welcome to the use of my rental on Hillman Street. This time of year, nobody seeks a house in London, but one doesn’t want to let the servants go, because they need their wages.”

“Vera doesn’t exactly have pots of money,” Oak replied, sipping his port. “You’d have to make it plain she was a guest, not a renter.”

Another look passed between his brothers, and Oak realized his mistake. He should have scoffed at the notion of Vera traveling to Town, should have snorted with disdain. Vera did not want to travel to Town, had no reason to travel to Town. None at all. She’d been very clear about that.

Oak had made mistakes, plural, for he’d not even acknowledged Ash’s question about marriage.

“Vera has bad memories of London,” Oak said. “Channing’s friends were less than respectful toward her. She was a rural innocent, and they were artists orbiting her worldly husband. His previous relationship was irregular.”

Actually, Oak’s mistakes were up to three, because he ought not to have referred to his employer as Vera.

“Hence the lovely Miss Catherine,” Cam said. “She has all the makings of an original. I like her too.”

“That’s your problem,” Oak said. “You like everybody, but about whom do you truly care, little brother?”

Ash ran a finger around the rim of his glass. “Got you there, Cam.”

“I care about you,” Cam replied, rising. “Though heaven alone knows why. You look at Mrs. Channing the way Casriel looked at the fair Beatitude when he was being all muttonheaded about marrying money. Doomed love is not an attractive accessory to any man’s turnout. At least Ash has channeled his unrequited passion into a becoming touch of weltschmerz, as the Germans say. That reminds me. I know the Forester fellow. We had the same German tutor during my ill-fated terms at Oxford.”

Ash’s smile faded, and he took another sip of his brandy.

“You know Jeremy Forester?” Oak asked.

“In my brief penance as a university scholar, my path crossed with his. He was sent down more than once and was heartily disliked by the tavern maids. He tried to take by force and guile what he could not purchase with coin.”

This description, unfortunately, fit all too well with what Oak knew of Forester. “And yet, he lectures a six-year-old about gentlemanly deportment. What about Forester’s academics? Did he apply himself there?”

Cam picked up his drink. “Hardly. His nickname was Slow Top. He lacked the artistic ability to follow in his uncle’s footsteps and lacked the discipline to become any sort of scholar. I pity the little fellow shut up in a schoolroom all day with Forester for a tutor.”

Slow Top. “Who is his uncle?”

Cam sauntered toward the door. “Your patron saint, Mr. Richard Longacre, RA. What a coincidence. Make my excuses to the ladies, please. I need my rest if I’m to be on my most charming behavior